Tag Archives: bohemian

Never-ever in my life, had I ventured outside in a pair of pj’s. But this pair of sweats, that had previously been purchased in the sleepwear department of H&M, had somehow seemed to be a perfect choice for the recent change in the weather. They were that pretty color of a Siberian cat’s fur — bluish-gray and fluffy — and so fucking cozy, the rainy Saturday morning had insisted on calling them out of my closet. Plus they fit over my knee-high Uggs without any bulky stretch in the material. And I kept thinking no one would be able to tell the primary purpose of this attire, so I left the house.

He himself was wearing a pair of black, shiny tights with zippers at his ankles, which I’m pretty sure belonged to the women’s portion of a Lululemon store that he had raided a week before.

“Do you know any other guy who could pull these off?” my running buddy had puffed himself up, after berating my attire.

I didn’t want to break it to him. We were about to run through West Hollywood, so anything went.

“Are you gonna use these as sails?” he turned the attention back to me. “Just to pick up some speed, or something?”

These men, who make us, women, feel like we don’t measure up to their standards: Why do they find it humane, or even appropriate, to express their opinions out loud?

I was proud of my pants though, and I have pleasantly rediscovered them this fall. When someone mentioned we were expecting a rainy weekend, I had already been wearing these things around the house for a week. And on this rainy Saturday, they were finally being taken outside.

It was a perfect San Franciscan morning. The street — with cute boutiques and family-owned restaurants; a deli with excellent (although overpriced) food; a used bookstore and a funky newsstand on the corner — was paved with a wet and shimmering asphalt. A few sleepy humans came out into the rain to smell the newly rinsed city and its rarely smog-less air. Two pale young men from a Noah Baumbach future cast were the only ones sitting on the patio and mellowly watching the traffic of shiny, rinsed cars. Tiny drops of drizzle were tangled up in the tips of their overgrown hair. They looked like dandelion heads.

The owner of a health store I never visited before was sliding open the rusty gate. A pretty brunette in rubber rain boots, she, too, looked mellow and somewhat tired.

“Good morn!” she said, sounding like a girl who would never outgrow her college-day quirkiness. “Love your pants!”

Yes, it was a perfect San Franciscan morning. Except that, I was on my street, in Hollywood.

A giant cup of steaming ginger tea, wide enough to wash my face in, began to sound perfect. I strolled down to the end of the block and stepped inside my favorite coffee joint, with Bohemia-inspired set-up and late night hours suitable for the insomniacs and dreamers.

The light was mellow, streaming down from mismatching lamps, through vintage lampshades and colored lightbulbs. A mirror ball was slowly spinning in the corner. A feline female voice was meowing over the speakers.

“Bjork?” I guessed.

That’s when I overheard the girl:

“I mean: That is just SO unattractive!”

The male barista, who leaned against the counter to listen to the venting female customer, greeted me with a nod.

“Do you know what you’d like?”

“Um? Do you have any ginger tea?” I said.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “But lemme check.”

Carefully, from behind my icicle locks of wet hair, I snuck a peak at the girl: She was pretty and petite. A cute brunette in an oversized, Flashdance inspired sweater slipping off her naked shoulder, she leaned her body into the bar and arched her back. The thong, that her position had revealed above her jeans’ belt, seemed pre-staged. Her hair was messy, wavy, almost nappy, a la Sienna Miller, in her hipster self. Her jewelry was so H&M: giant rings and layered necklaces! She was consumed with scrolling text messages with a single thumb on her Blackberry’s screen.

“Yeah. I don’t think this is about me,” I thought.

The mellow barista returned:

“I don’t have any ginger tea. But I have tea — with ginger?” He linger.

“That’ll do!” I said.

Our transaction was over. The girl returned to venting:

“I mean, just look at this one! How can he be texting me such things?

She brushed her sharp nails through the nappy hair and handed over the Blackberry. She seemed distraught, although slightly showy.

Trying to write at a coffee shop: This nomadic lifestyle of mine is slowly taking a toll on me.

The joint that I’ve chosen is not on the beach, but it carries the name of one. And it comes with a specific array of noises. Noises and egos.

They aren’t corporate egos, thank goodness. They belong to life-long outcasts and beautiful, quirky kids who are stubborn and mad enough — to keep at their stories: At their art.

Like this tatted-up boy right here, with bleached hair: He is smaller than me. He walks in through the glass back door, smiles sheepishly; grabs the handle before the door slams and shuts it, slowly. Quietly. He knows there are others here — stubborn and mad enough to keep at their stories. To keep at their art.

Just look at him! I betcha he’s got a story or two, and he’s most likely figured out his medium by now. So, he’s certainly gotten himself a hefty ego. And that ego nags — until each story is told: on paper or on his skin, or braided in between the strings of his guitar.

The boy leaves. I notice that the bleached hair is actually brushed into a well-sculpted mohawk. He does the handle thing again, looks at me, from the other side of the glass door; smiles sheepishly. Thank goodness — for his specificity!

Shit! I’ve gotta focus. I still haven’t written, this morning.

I walk over to the counter. I can tell by the way one barista is bickering at the other, under her breath, that the two ladies aren’t really getting along. This one: brown, pretty, with striking gray eyes is yanking the handle of the espresso grinder like she means it. I catch myself wondering if her wrist hurts at night, and if that shoulder of hers needs healing. Does it makes her moan, at times, about “her fucking day job”? Does it fuel her stubborn madness — to keep at her stories? To keep at her art?

Just look at her! By the way she arches her eyebrows and tightens her mouth, I know she’s been doing this gig for a while. And she’s really good at it. There is a routine in her movements:

Yank, yank, yank, yank. Swipe across with a single forefinger. Press down the tamper, tap the side with it. Press down again. Brush away the loose grinds. Get ready to brew.

This girl is a virtuoso! She’s found art in the most mundane of occupations.

Okay. Shit. Focus. I still haven’t written, this morning.

The girl taking my order is also the one working the milk steamer. She is a bit bossy. Some may even call her “bitchy”. “Tightly wound”. “With prickly temperament”. (I would know: I get called those things — all the fucking time!) I watch her maneuvering each pot of steaming milk above a paper cup.

She reminds me of a woman conductor who has once taught me music: That older creature of grace was an untypical occurrence, an exception in the world of classical music. This one — must be some sort of an artist as well. And I wonder if she’s got the balls to be a pioneer, in her very specific thing.

“Hey, now!” she says to a young skater boy who struts into the joint, through the glass back door. He has a headful of African curls tamed with a backward turned cap.

And on top of that, there is a hysterical rockstar screaming over the radio speakers. I’ve been in enough of these joints, over the course of my nomadic lifestyle, to have learned good music. This — is not good.

The radio goes silent. I look back: The bossy counter girl is messing with the radio stations. A sweet reggae beat takes over.

The boy in a hoodie, at the table next to mine, starts nodding his messy head. His face is wrinkly with pillow marks, but it’s intense. He is so young, yet already so specific.

Just look at him!

Shit!

Focus!

Write!

The tatted-up boy with bleached out hair returns to use the bathroom. He does the handle thing.

The bathroom door opens: A youth of about twenty rolls out of it, in a wheel-chair. Damn!

He passes me. His face is kind. He smiles.

The girl with earplugs gets up, packs up quietly. Leaves through the glass back door. Does the handle thing.

A Mexican stunner walks in: Long black hair, butterflies instead of eyelashes. She smiles at me, full heartedly. Does the handle thing.

There is so much beauty in specificity! There is so much beauty in compassion! And it makes it so much easier — to keep at my art.

“Shit! Let me get this for you!” I leap out of my seat, to help a lovely young mother who’s trying to get through the glass back door, with her hands full.

I smile, hold the door; say: “No problem!” And quietly — do the handle thing.

I was missing a somewhere, the other night. I wasn’t really sure which somewhere it was: Whether it was New York, or that other glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving. The skin was calm, but the soul was crawling. Or at least, the soul was swaying — toward another somewhere, much different from here.

And it was an odd sensation. I had no obligations to keep me in town, treading the specific ground of here. I could’ve taken off, at that moment, in my car. I could’ve driven it for as many gas tanks as my bank account would afford. And I realized: I had never found myself in such a here. Before, there was always something to keep me in place. But be it my full acceptance of losses or some urgent realization about time — about my now — I suddenly found myself unattached.

No, not de-tached: for I never let the days pass me with carelessness. I am not care-less — I am care-free.

And: It felt wonderfully.

If there was anything I’ve learned: I knew there was no use in being frustrated with a lack of time. Time would keep on doing its thing. So, instead of measuring my life against the flight of minutes — and their flightiness — I was beginning to choose taking control of them. (And I’m pretty sure my full acceptance of losses had something to do with it.)

But taking control of time could cause a lot of damage to the human hand. The only way to actually control it — was to surrender. To accept the flight of minutes. To find delight in their flightiness.

And the only way to do that — was to live. Some chose to live it up, in their way: to defeat time with money. My way seemed tested by time: I now live fully, curiously in my here; never putting a curiosity on hold for too long. For me, the only way to take control of time — was to never let it pass me with carelessness.

For I never was care-less — I was care-free.

So, when I was missing a somewhere, the other night, I thought:

“What if I found that somewhere — HERE?”

I knew it had to be a busy somewhere: a somewhere where other people chose to be here. It couldn’t be a club or a lounge, because those were always filled with mixed messages and convoluted ways. In those, one must hunt much harder to find sincerity or truth. No, I wanted to be somewhere where people walked according to their own nows. I wanted to see young lovers strolling calmly as if never frustrated with a lack of time. I wanted to watch friends laughing at outside cafes, kids waking-up their parents with their curiosity. I wanted to see street artists who could teach me their ways of being carefree.

And so, I drove myself to the coast. It gets much colder there, I thought; and before starting up my car, I bundled myself in an oversized sweater that reminded me a different somewhere: NOT here.

I drove in silence, with my windows down. I remembered the beginning days of cellphone culture: I was living in New York — a somewhere that’s definitely much different from here. The only way to escape the clumsiness and unawareness of cellphone users — was to go underground. Because there was always plenty of stories on the New York City subway, but the stories overheard from phone conversations didn’t seem to be in that plenty yet. That’s until we would ride out above the ground, at the 125th street: Cellphones would get whipped out as if in an airborne epidemic; and bits of soundbites from other people’s private lives would flood the train. And then, we would go underground again, in silence.

So, I chose to drive in silence, the other night, while crawling toward a somewhere much different from here. (How ever — when ever — did I dare to surrender my moments of daytime silence to the soundbites of other people’s private lives narrated to me over my bluetooth?)

The closer I got to the coast, the denser got the traffic. There shouldn’t have been any traffic at that hour, but I was glad to navigate it: It meant other people were driving out, according to their nows. Other people were choosing to tread the ground, and maybe I could find a little bit of a different somewhere — here, that night.

On foot, the very first couple I saw was hip and mellow, and completely stunning. He was tall and pretty. She was tiny, exotic, quirky and adored. They were wearing layers of tattered tees and oversized sweaters. She sported a military jacket, with feather earrings touching the seams of its shoulders, in the fashion of other exotic girls, in that glorious city up north that I was in the habit of craving.

A homeless man with a full, gray beard was walking a golden retriever. The dog seemed better groomed — and fed — than the owner; and that other person’s love soothed me with calmness:

“Everything is still quite alright, with the world,” I thought.

He wasn’t — careless.

Then, there was an older couple: both white-haired and neatly dressed in all shades of blue. Each possibly older than their sixth or seventh decade, they walked very slowly, according to their nows, very specific and very different from the now of mine.

“What is this here called?” the woman asked in a child-like voice. She was speaking Russian.

“A mosaic,” he responded, in English, studying the facade of the church that attracted his girl’s attention.

She repeated it, in English. They were both still learning, waking each other up with mutual curiosity. And they loved.

“Everything — is still quite alright, with the world.”

A husky voice belonging to an angel reached my ears. I started walking, quite slowly, toward the curly blonde in an oversized coat singing on the Promenade. A small crowd had accumulated around her. People leaned against trees, against their beloveds; they sat on benches, each obeying their nows.

The angel, when speaking, had a London accent — from a somewhere much, much different from here. She sang our night away.

I never got to the somewhere that I was missing that night. But I somehow, my here was good enough.

I’ve gotten into this terrible habit, in the middle of my sleep: When the alarm clock goes off, I yank its cord out of the wall. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know if that thing has a snooze button: I’ve never had to use it. And I wish I could give up the habit, but I do it when barely awake. So, it’s kinda like sleep walking. Sleep yanking.

The thing is: I LOVE to sleep. I can hibernate for hours. I sleep to cope with stress, loss, life. I sleep on the road. I’ve got no problem sleeping in cars, planes, tents; in new beds, in new towns. The bigger the change — the longer I take to wake up. Sometimes, I think I sleep to return to my innocence; or to somewhat restore it, at least.

And once I’m out, there is no noise that can wake me.

Motha always jokes:

“Ze Russian tanks rrollin’g thrrough town von’t vake you.”

(This — is Russian humor. Welcome!)

But on the other hand, I never seem to have enough time in the day to get shit done; so I rarely want to get to bed, at night.

First, there are my survival gigs: The hustle.

Then, there are auditions and my projects of choice: The very reason I’ve landed in LA-LA.

The rest of my time is gobbled up by writing. Every week, the art claims about forty hours. I’ve counted them the other day because I began to wonder why I was always so tired: constantly wanting to sleep, but never wanting to get to bed; sleeping past the alarm, then running late for the rest of the day.

I clock-in for it every day, first thing in the morning. And it must be the only reason I get to bed at all: to recharge the brain and to start from scratch, all over again. To return to my innocence — or to somewhat restore it. To remember it, at least.

The rest of my comrades — are sleepless as well. First of all, most of the time they’re hungover on jet lag, not remembering in which timezone they’ve landed a few days ago. They are artists, bohemians, gypsies: They sleep in my car on the way to or from LAX. My comrades play by their own rules, live by their own clocks, in timezones of their invention. They wear their watches like eccentric wristbands. They use their phones and the bedtime of their beloveds to tell time. And there have been many nights we’ve used to reconvene, while the rest of the world has long gone to sleep.

Because our love must be how we return to our innocence — or how we restore it, somewhat, at least.

“Bloody hell! I went to bed at five this morning!” my brother from New York is always likely to tell me. His voice is raspy when he wakes, but child-like. Give him a cup of coffee and eggs with chocolate (a recipe of his own invention) — and he is ready to play again.

Innocent.

He should be here, in a few days; and for a week, my sleeping schedule will get jolted into a strange line-up of sleepless nights, midnight talks, crashing on couches, mid-day showers, and running late. But there will also be tearful laughter, endless talks of art and love; and a closeness so intimate, it will rejuvenate my hopes for the human kind. And even if it won’t return me to my innocence — it will somewhat restore it, at least.

Back in my college days, a decade ago, I used to be able to pull off weeks of not sleeping. The weight of the world used to be on my shoulders — or at least, the world’s most poignant questions. But then, none of us slept those days, especially before finals or the deadline to send our college newspaper to the printing house. We were young artists, bohemians, writers, dreamers — lovers of the world. We already suspected we couldn’t return the world to its innocence; but, perhaps, we could restore it, somewhat: with our art, our hopes, the poetry of our youth.

With New York City as our playground in the backyard of our college, there never seemed enough reasons to get to bed. But once we did — often at five, six in the morning — there was no noise that could wake us. We slept calmly, as the innocent do; but only for a couple of hours, before class (and before starting the work from scratch). Because there was nothing to restore yet. Our hearts were full. And we still knew — how to love.

But today, it’s a frantic start. I leap out of bed:

“Bloody hell! I’m late!”

These days, I’m always seemingly late. There is never enough time — to return the world to its innocence, to solve its most poignant questions — and there is less and less of it, as I get older.

The somberness of the day set-in as soon as I checked-in with the world before sitting down to work: A decade ago, we have all lost our innocence — in New York City; and for the rest of the world, restoring it got a lot harder.

O-kay! Let’s just have it all out now, shall we? Some broads — come with a past.

A huge past with multiple mistakes and redemptions. The type of a past that often makes them fascinating, mysterious, and desirable to the other gender; and inspiring to their own. She is that broad who is often flocked by male companions; whose lovers remain friends and whose friends wouldn’t mind a toss or two in between her sheet. Getting a light in roomful of strangers for her long cigarette requires a single gesture: perhaps, an eyebrow raise, or a parting of her lips. She knows the power of her hair flip and the ability to regulate traffic — and to save hearts — with the shape and extension of her leg. Typical to the feminine fashion, she may not know what she wants exactly, in the moment; but once she does — she knows very well how to get it.

Oh, she is fantastic! Seemingly, she’s tried everything and would often surprise you with unusual skills, like spitting fires or riding tigers. Or a stick shift. Or a tractor and a tank. She makes for a phenomenal traveling companion; because even if her standards of living have been raised high, she can easily let them go for the sake of an adventure.

Her style — has been tested for years. She lives in her garbs, not just wears them. They are her second skin. Clothes are meant to have fun with — or be taken off. Her scarves turn into blouses; skirts — into dresses; sarongs — into head wraps; and she always wears killer pants. She is the one with the closet full of men’s dress shirts — small mementoes of her loves — and she can twist your mind with desire when she shows up to your bedroom in nothing but a raincoat.

The maintenance of her needs — hygienic, spiritual and financial alike — has been her own responsibility. So, she will never burden a man with seeking solutions. She needn’t be rescued, don’t you worry about her: She’s got it covered, in spades!Now, secretly she may wish to be cared for — by a failed parent or a capable partner — but you’d never know it until she’s down with a stomach flu or a broken ankle. And I bet you, even then she’ll feed you her routine of:

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Forget about it: I’m fine!”

But being a power broad comes with tremendous consequences. Any human existence filled with self-examination and high standards causes a few discomforts on the part of its witnesses; because it is hard to keep up with those in pursuit of personal perfection, isn’t it? First of all, people with fascinating lives can be painfully annoying to the rest of us, because they reminds us not only of our failures but of our lapses in our own pursuits.

“Who the fuck does she think she is?!” some of us may wonder. “What is she: Invincible?”

Probably not, but her failures have not stopped her. She will be the first to admit to her fuck-ups (and she won’t even cover them up with a diplomatic excuse of “a lesson learned”). But somehow, she hadn’t lost the view of the big picture; so despite the detours and the surmounted losses, she is still seemingly well on her way.

To others, she may be inspiring (especially if she can downplay her power with “just being SO nice!”) But even then, she doesn’t seem to aspire to that. Because her friendships have been tested for years; and she’s learned that her true friends don’t give a flying fuck as to what she does with her life, as long as she is happy. So, seeking their approval hasn’t been on the list of her needs in a long while. As for others, if they want a piece of her — she’s down with it. She will choose the ones to mentor, but as far as “inspiration” goes, she’ll leave that in the hands — and eyes — of her beholders.

O-kay! Shall we continue having it all out now?

Here, we can all agree that a power broad’s dating life — will be painful. But then again, it is painful for most of us, right? Yes. Hers, however, will be struck with an obvious loneliness, because her dating pool has been diminished by her pursuits, and not many partners can keep up with those. Had she been a man, of course, her desirability factor would shoot through the roof; because “powerful men attract women, powerful women repel men”.

“Who the fuck do you think you are: spewing out such generalizations?!” some of you may wonder.

Actually, I’m not the one spewing them out. Last night, while hanging out on the couch of my Bohemian brother in a cloud of an apple-spiced hookah, I came across this lovely bit here, in the good ole New York Times:

Inspired by the recent Twitter scandal of a one inventive politician (although not so, when it came to metaphors), the piece was dedicated to badly behaving male public figures. Although never in the mood for sex scandals, even I haven’t been able to ignore the recent missteps by the few politicians unable to keep their hormones from affecting their ethics (or even, their common sense of judgement). And yes, the Times bit particularly focused on why women rarely find themselves in such predicaments:

“Female politicians rarely get caught up in sex scandals. Women in elective office have not, for instance, blubbered about Argentine soul mates (see: Sanford, Mark); been captured on federal wiretaps arranging to meet high-priced call girls (Spitzer, Eliot); resigned in disgrace after their parents paid $96,000 to a paramour’s spouse (Ensign, John); or, as in the case of Mr. Weiner, blasted lewd self-portraits into cyberspace.”

And so, along with the Times pontificator Sheryl Gay Stolberg, I found myself wondering last night about the reasons for such an obvious statistic. Still, as at the time of every one of these scandals, I wasn’t tempted to wag my finger at the male politicians: I come from a collectively horny nation — and family; so passing judgements would make me look like a hypocrite. But that is the very reason that a broad like me would never run for an office, in the first place.

Because you see, I AM that woman with a past; and that past comes with consequences. I would never want for my fuck-ups (NOT “lessons learned” by the way!) to resurface and tarnish the dignity of my beloveds — or of my political party. I surely still want to create change in this world, but I just might have to do it via my career as an entertainer, a writer, or a philanthropist — but NOT a politician!

The Times journalist seems to agree:

“Women have different reasons for running,” she writes, “are more reluctant to do so and, because there are so few of them in politics, are acutely aware of the scrutiny they draw — all of which seems to lead to differences in the way they handle their jobs once elected.”

Last night, I decided to leave it to the big dogs to pontificate on the gender-related statistics and differences. In the mean time, while I continue to aspire to my personal perfections and altruistic objectives (some of which are indeed drawn from my rich past), I must surrender to my own consequences: my very limited dating life; the loss of acquaintances to their judgement and fear; and the departure of my suddenly repelled male companions while I give ’em all my routine of “I’m fine, I’m fine! Forget about it: I’m fine!” But such is the pickle of life, ain’t it: A man or a woman is free to make choices, but it is consequences of those choices that make a man — or a woman.

Trying something new this morn’, my kittens: Naked rant blogging — IN BED. Knowing me (and some of you are getting to know me quite a bit these days, thank you very much), I am shocked I haven’t done this one before.

The thing is, this week: Besides working really hard on my dreams (The Perpetual Dreamer is my life’s finally declared major), I’ve also invested a few hours on the most significant relationships of my life (which although do not currently include a romantic interest, but plenty of loves).

I’ve received my girlfriends’ strife and got updates from my comrades on the state of their own nostalgia for our no longer existent motherland: Bohemia, alas.

“Hear me out!” — a gypsy man ordered me the other day while he endlessly wondered about his next wandering. And I did. I did: I heard him out.

Compassion.

I’ve held my breath in silence yesterday afternoon while listening to my goddaughter far away from me, on the other coast, who hasn’t learned to talk yet but speaks volumes with her silence and her tiny furrowed brows inherited from India. Breathlessly, I held back my tears to the noise of her twirling her mother’s cell phone, in her little brown hands; and when she finally produced a noise that’s impossible to spell or imitate — (was that Malayalam, my love?) — oh how I wept! But then, again: I’ve claimed my breath back:

Compassion!

Now, I’m sittin’ here, in my canopy bed, with the most gorgeous skies tempting me from outside. My body — albeit its looking delicious this summer already, thank you very much — is feeling as if someone has ran it over with a truck. Better yet: a tank. Exhausted: That’s what I am, my kittens.

But regardless the state of being, I always come back to the blank page, every single morn’, as I’ve done for years, on my own. Alone. But now: You’re here. And these every day reunions beat every other desire I may harbor. It’s permanent — this wanting to be read. And even though I never allow myself the hubris of assuming that I may change a life — with my words — I hope I at least reveal enough compassion.

Compassion…

“How do you find what to write about?”

I hear a voice from another day — a voice of one of my broken-hearted. She’s always thought so highly of me! She wishes for my strength and esteem and discipline; while little does she know that all I wish for — is her time. She’s still got time on her side — time and youth, you see? — while I’m perpetually running out. Too young to know what chronic nights of loneliness feel like, she thinks I don’t cry behind my closed doors and curtains; that I’m immune to doubt. She thinks my compassion comes freely, at no cost.

How DO I find what to write about?

Compassion. That’s it. It never runs out. That’s my privilege, in life — and my burden: I’m never immune to humanity. No matter the stupidity or the disappointment, I always come back to it. And now: You’re here.And even though I never allow myself the hubris of earning your understanding, your misunderstanding — I just cannot afford! Because these tales come from my compassion: FOR YOU. For the sake of you. For the sake of my own kindness.

Kind-ness.

The hero of today’s rant blog shall be named Stan.

Stan was a simple man, my kittens; not really artistic or fearless. He just wanted to live his life, to live it out in calm — in some blah-ness of a simple survival.

No, he didn’t want much. Aspiring — wasn’t his thing. Ambition was somebody else’s spiel. Because to live — wasn’t even his choice in the first place. He was sort of born one day, to a pair of unartistic, fearful parents, somewhere in the middle of the country. They taught him how to walk and to use the toilet; then, sent him off to school. Then — college.

Stan got by. Started losing his hair early. Met a girl. Learned to wank himself off. Married the girl — knocked her up, clumsily, in the dark; then, returned to wanking himself off, alone. Pleasures were always simple for Stan. So were the solutions to his problems. (I wish he didn’t have any, to tell you the truth. But then, we are never granted more than we can handle. So, Stan’s lot had to be lighter than mosts’.)

“I hear California is nice,” he said to his wife one day. She was in the midst of matching his tube socks after doing laundry.

That was the day of Stan’s midlife crisis.

So, they moved.

And that’s where Stan and I met: At some random gas station on Western Boulevard. I was running low, in the midst of my Perpetual Dreaming. (Otherwise, I’d avoid that street at all costs: It’s got a special talent for inspiring depression.) And Stan? Stan was on his way back to Glendale. This — was his regular stop.

At first, he was the jerk answering his cell phone at the gas pump next to mine.

“Is this fucker suicidal?!” I thought and looked at him with the disgust I learned on New York subways. Don’t know about his simple life, but I still had plenty of aspiring to do! Ambition — was my spiel!

Stan noticed the look, realized his wrongdoing. He brushed his thin hairs over the bald spot, lowered the phone and said:

“I’m so sorry, M’am. I have to get this! My wife…”

Stan started weeping, my kittens. Subduedly at first, just so he could finish the phone call. But once the flip phone slid into the pocket of his un-ironed khakis, Stan became all about his “ohs” and “goshes”. Repeatedly, he tried to double over the hood of his car, then the trash bin with pockmarks of gum all over it. He tried so hard to face away from me.

“Sir? Sir, let me…”

With my hand on his hunched over back, I tried to guide him to his driver’s seat. But Stan was all about his “ohs” and “goshes”, clutching onto that filthy trash bin:

I was running low that day; but when compassion flooded — it took me with it, good riddance.

Glorious morning to you, my most beautiful creatures. You hearts beloved by me or someone else, but still: beloved! My exploring Doras and Little Princes, who sooner or later have had to grow-up — fall out of love with roses and sheep — but oh how I pray have never grown out of your childlike curiosity. “You princes of Maine… you kings of New England.” You bohemians and gypsies whose eyesight has been humbled by the size of the world, but whose souls expanded across the universe. You decent beings, with daily acts of courageous living:

How I wish for your world to be ever-so kind! How stubbornly I hope that there is enough love in your lives to give space to your mournings and strife — and to resurrect and heal you at the end, every single time! As trials and tribulations of humanity affect you via headlines or, more directly, via personal tragedies, I know your souls can summon the grace you didn’t know you possessed — and your hearts can prove to be resilient. There shall be more forgiveness, if you want it — I promise. And there shall always be more love!

This morning, I woke up thinking of my goddaughter. Three time zones away from my spoiling hand (and wallet), she is quickly growing-up on the opposite coast, where over a decade ago, I chose to grow-up myself. There, at my college, is where I met her mother — my best friend. My total BFF! My “dudette” and confidant. The Sister of My Heart. The woman of unbeatable grace, and of spirituality so disciplined, I have yet to find someone to measure up to it. It is her love — and the love of her family — that has replaced this gypsy’s lack of homeland or home. Seemingly forever — or for as long as my ever lasts on this planet — I shall continue coming back to that love, after every insignificant defeat; and every single of my tiny victories, I shall stubbornly dedicate to her.

Ten years ago, we were inseparable. Oh how many endless, pontificating walks we taken back then, along the campus of our all-women’s college! (Yep, I was of those naive feminists back then; and thank Shiva, I haven’t grown out of it!) And oh how many human emotions we thought we could deconstruct to a complete understanding, while en route to pick-up some Chinese food! The stories we’ve collected and retold, one brown mouth to another’s brown ear (or pen to paper and fingertips to a key board) — they are infinite! In a group of fellow writers and nerds, we dominated the office of the college newspaper, staying up past enough sunrises that even the campus security gave-up on hoarding us back to our dorms. (Oh, we were official! The Midnight Moths, they called us. And we demanded to be reckoned with!)

When the academic year of 2001 began, my schedule was overloaded with journalism classes while BFF was quickly becoming a computer wiz. When the news of a plane crashing into a Manhattan building popped-up in the corner of my computer monitor taken up by a QuarkXpress tutorial, I shrugged it off as just another freak accident which any self-respecting New Yorker should be able to take in stride. (And that’s exactly what I decided to be then: A New Yorker –with internships and friendships in the City, and a quickly developing sense of style, identity and womanhood.)

But then — there came another hit…

In that room, chairs were shuffled in panic. Somewhere, in the back, a classmate broke down. Recently returned from California, I was wearing too summery of an outfit; and as further headlines floated up onto my computer screen, I fiddled with the belt of my wraparound skirt. And then, there was the face of my teacher — the mentor to my aspiring journalism career — and that face was paralyzed by a lack of any comprehension or adult composure. I think she was about to cry. What was happening?

No way, was I sticking around! I was out! The first to leave the classroom, not at all interested in the consequences, I went looking for my BFF. If only I could find her, I thought, the world would not dare to fall apart on us.

I found her. On a staircase where we’ve watched marathons of Will and Grace and Peter Jennnings during our Christmas decorating stunts. I’m sure she’s seen me demonstrate some very embarrassing, sleep-deprived behaviors on those same stairs. But that day, my girl just sat there. Silent. Stunned, I fiddled with my belt: In our now decade-long friendship, that morning — would be the only time I would see her cry. And her face! It seemed I would never forgive the world for that face! For not until that day — and not since — have I seen her resemble a little girl.

She is a mother now. A mother to my goddaughter. Always inseparable, even in this experience, my girl has granted me the privilege to live vicariously — with her. And as I watch the face of her daughter (via BFF’s disciplined acts of photojournalism on Facebook), I wonder about the world that she is about to experience.

Thankfully, that kiddo is never easily entertained. Perpetually, her face looks like that of a philosopher or a writer — and she makes this Russian mama ever so proud! (I am pretty sure that if ever I am to experience my own motherhood, my child will turn out to be one of those goofy, grinning munchkins — just so that I myself learn to lighten up a bit.) With my breath stolen by that little brown face, I am waiting for her to start talking. What will she say? How will she comprehend the world still filled with misery and misunderstanding which I haven’t been able to fix for her? Where will I find the wisdom to teach her that despite the daily testaments to some terrible human behavior, she shouldn’t fear — but inherit the life of grace and love from her magnificent mother? What will happen to us all? How will I shield her? How will I endure witnessing the loss of her innocence?…

Oh, hush a bye, my little darling heart!

For love has not expired. It will never expire — if we choose. I shall show you what your mama has taught me: That no matter the acts of disappointing human behavior, love strives — still! We may be no longer innocent, but hopefully ever-so wise; wise enough to know that love — is the universal homecoming for us all.

I bet it is your ambition and your courageous pursuit of your dreams that makes me adore you. But I have seen some of you slip up — but never crumble — on the way to your conquests; and in those vulnerable seconds I could NOT have loved you more. Because it is in the way you chuckle when you pick yourself up; the way you rise up again, albeit embarrassed; the way you mend your torn-up clothes — with dignity of kings!; the way you bite your lower lips when I tend to your scratches; and the way you brush off your shoulders from the hail of the words of haters — in all that you teach me the merely invisible line between pride and dignity. And then you take off again, pushing yourself with your impatience, or your fear of not mattering.

“Gotta get somewhere! Gotta become something!”

Last night, a beloved woman best compared to my personal Mother Teresa was beating herself up in our phone conversation. She has experienced motherhood late in life, and instead of living for the sake of her daughter alone — she went back to school. Astonishing! Off she went, my kindest LA-LA heart, pulling along a full-time job, a full-time class schedule — and a frigging stroller.

“I’ve got to do this for my daughter!” she flagellated the soft skin of her back with her frustration at the current, undeserving employer and her impatience with the world’s injustices; and the self-imposed pressure to be a better parent.

The last time I’ve encountered that mentioned girl-child, born so smart she conjugates her verbs better than most grown-ups she meets at her play-dates, she wasn’t asking her mother to become better. Her mother’s time — was all she wanted. And who could blame her: In the company of my girlfriend, every person feels fully received, understood and unconditionally accepted. Oh so many times, my red-headed Mother Teresa had gotten an earful from me about the errors of my underserving men or my own sins against my self-worth. Yet, she remained nonjudgemental, kind — just the way a mother is supposed to be. So, the only thing I miss about her these days — is her company. Her time. Her very being. To me, she is perfectly enough; and I bet that little brilliant child of hers feels the same way.

“Well! I’ve gotta do this, for myself!” my favorite redhead concluded last night, after a couple of my meek objections.

A’right! NOW we’re talkin’! The most stubborn advocate of learning, I shall not disagree with this woman’s ambition to better herself — but she better not pull that sacrifice card on me, or on her child. Do it for yourself, your own high expectations of your humanity. But in the mean time, please: Treat yourself with a lil’ bit more kindness, will you?

Now, I wish I would live by my own sermon, my comrades. Having skipped out on sufficient sleep for a month now, I am tearing through time that passes way too quickly while my dreams seem to move way too slowly, crashing the face of every clock I encounter on my way like a petulant child who’s not fond of hearing “Nyet!”. With each new wrinkle underneath my exhausted eyes, I’ve been chalking-up the sacrifices committed for the sake of my future, accomplished and seemingly overall better self.

“Gotta, gotta, gotta!” I mutter in my lover’s bed; and he — Shiva bless him! — tangles up his callused, manly hand in my hair and whispers me to sleep.

Okay! I promise: Tomorrow I shall rest!

…Yet already, my to-day’s heavy schedule is scratching at the front door, like a homeless, scrawny cat I’ve made a poor choice to feed every once in a while. The sound of everything I’ve “gotta” do is speeding-up my heartbeat and making me slightly nauseous with anxiety. Just like always, I bet I shall accomplish every one of my “gotta’s” with grace and efficiency; and when I do, I promise to celebrate with a cup of brutally-brewed black Russian tea, with brown honey. And during my rest stops — my breathing breaks — I shall let my beloveds remind me of my magnificence and demand my time and company; for it is in the shared moments of slowness that I tend to feel most accomplished and merely enough.